


the walls are white

by zebra (statusquo_ergo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Dementia, Established Relationship, Johnlock Roulette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo/pseuds/zebra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell me, how did this come to be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mors certa, hora incerta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death is certain, its hour is uncertain

“We’ve had a good run, you and I.”

Sherlock is in the kitchen when he says it, and it’s a moment before John responds; he needs to be sure he heard right.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, turning from the Politics section to International News.

“Hm? Oh; no,” Sherlock assures, “just something that occurred to me. Never mind.”

The words on the page become fuzzy as John’s vision goes out of focus.

“Impressive, isn’t it,” he settles on, “that we’ve lasted as long as we have. What with our mutual tendencies to risk our lives for some truly, fantastically stupid reasons. You know.”

Sherlock’s laugh is quiet and private, but John hears it all the same.

Today is a good day.

\---

“Where are my glasses?”

John glances over the top of his book.

“On the table by the window,” he says distractedly, trying to find the sentence he stopped in the middle of reading. Sherlock always leaves his glasses there before he puts his goggles on, and the flat smells of bromine vapor and ethanol. “Please tell me you’re wearing your safety equipment.”

“Of course I’m wearing my safety equipment,” Sherlock snaps as he stalks past, shedding his lab coat as he goes and picking up the glasses when he reaches them. “Don’t say stupid things.”

Laying his book in his lap and leaning back, John quirks his eyebrow; Sherlock meets his gaze for a minute with an impertinent glare, then shucks his gloves onto the table and storms down the hall toward the bedroom.

John drums his fingers on the armrests of his chair and sighs. It’s late, but not too late; he’ll go for a walk in the park.

This is something that happens sometimes.

\---

They pant heavily, both very much out of breath and very much too old for this, but the suspect took flight, and what exactly were they supposed to do? Anyway, he was an idiot and they easily cut him off when he thought he was being clever, diving into some dark alley. No one climbed onto any rooftops, so that’s something.

“It’s been awhile,” John says lowly.

“Just so,” Sherlock agrees. “I don’t think I’ll need to do it again for quite some time.”

John laughs and coughs at the same time.

“Tea?” Sherlock inquires, turning to the stairs and putting his hand on the railing. John clears his throat and nods.

“Yeah, tea.”

They stand together in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and feeling glad to be alive. After a few minutes, John goes to the refrigerator to get the milk, and Sherlock opens the cabinets to fetch a couple of mugs. After a few more minutes, Sherlock picks up the kettle, which hasn’t started boiling, and realizes he’s forgotten to plug it in.

No wonder the light wasn’t on.

John puts the milk back in the refrigerator for now.

It’s been a long day.

\---

John yawns, turning off the television and stretching his arms over his head. For a moment, he remembers long nights sneaking into locked buildings, hunting down nefarious criminals, that one overnight at the clinic during a particularly nasty flu season when seemingly the entire population of London was convinced they had contracted H1N1. God, how long has it been? Years and years.

“Coming to bed?” he asks as he stands. Sherlock grunts and taps his pen against the page before him in a rapid staccato.

“When I’m through outlining this chapter,” he mutters. John stands behind him and looks over his shoulder. _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_ , it says across the top margin. “Chapter 3.”

There are a few blank spaces in the script, underlines with nothing to emphasize.

“What’re those?” he asks. Sherlock taps the pen harder.

“Can’t think of the right words,” he says. “I’ll get to them later.”

John nods and puts his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Well, I’m tired,” he squeezes gently, “but you can join me whenever you’re ready.”

“Mm.”

After John has finished brushing his teeth and climbed in under the covers, he hears a funny thudding sound from the living room; a minute later, Sherlock joins him in bed, falling asleep quickly and without comment.

The next morning, John finds a spot of ink on the wall where the pen hit it, and Sherlock hasn’t filled in any of the blanks in the outline for Chapter 3.

\---

“How’s the book coming along?” John asks in his most interested tone of voice.

“What?” Sherlock replies, skimming an article on a painting referred to as “the lost Vermeer.” Some of the details are somehow familiar.

“The book,” John repeats. “Er, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture_ , wasn’t it, and I think there was a bit more after that. I haven’t seen you working on it in awhile.”

Sherlock shrugs, starting the article again from the beginning. “Boring.”

It’s a familiar sort of word; Sherlock says it about all kinds of things, all the time. Very much bores the most brilliant man in the world.

“Oh,” John says after a pause. “Really? You seemed quite enthusiastic about it, I thought…”

Sherlock hates it when John trails off his sentences; John knows this.

“You thought what?” Sherlock prompts. John shrugs.

“I guess that if it was worth starting, it would’ve been worth finishing.”

The lilt of his words is a bit sad, and Sherlock has an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach like he’s done something wrong without quite understanding what or why.

“I’ll start outlining the next chapter tomorrow,” he offers, and John smiles, but that’s a bit sad, too.

“Let me know if you want any help.”

It’s fine that he won’t.

\---

The doorbell, which is not residing in the refrigerator at the moment, rings loudly, echoing all through the flat. John, who’s been expecting the visit and waiting for it, goes to answer the caller; Sherlock, who knew the visit was scheduled but has been anticipating it with his usual trepidation, is startled by the noise and holds the door shut as John tries to open it.

“That’s not a client,” he says sharply. John shakes his head.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s your brother. He’s coming round for tea, remember?”

Moving his arm but keeping his foot against the sill, Sherlock scowls darkly. “That’s tomorrow.”

“No, I’m…I’m sure it’s today.” John furrows his brow. He checked the calendar this morning, just in case. “30 June.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock insists. “Tomorrow.”

Walking a little slower than usual, hoping Sherlock won’t notice (longing for the days he wouldn’t have had a chance of getting away with it—no, no, we’re here now, that’s all that matters), John picks up his mobile and opens the home screen. 30 JUNE 15:35, it reads in bold white text across a gentle sunset. He holds it up as he returns to the door.

“He’s five minutes late,” Sherlock says without ardor, and John lowers the phone, not quite sure how to respond to that.

Mycroft knocks on the door shortly thereafter and spares him the trouble.

“Gentlemen,” he greets formally. John nods, and Sherlock sits stiffly in his leather armchair.

“How are you doing?” John asks, hoping for honesty as he leaves plenty of room for a recycled inanity. Mycroft’s smile reaches his eyes but doesn’t make him look particularly happy.

“Thank you for asking,” he answers without answering. It’s not a surprise; this is a rough day for all of them, but none so much as him.

John goes to the kitchen to fetch the tea set as Mycroft sits in his usual chair. They prepared for this, of course; the old client chair is pulled up to its usual spot, and John doesn’t mind taking it today. It hasn’t really been the client chair for a long time.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greets. They sit together in stilted silence for awhile as John watches the water boil and scoops sugar into a small bowl.

“Where’s Lestrade?”

John drops the spoon he’s holding and Mycroft takes a sharp breath as he lowers his gaze to the floor.

“He’s…out,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock, if you’ll excuse me a moment.”

The water boils and the kettle clicks itself off, and John clenches his hands into fists and presses the heels of his palms against the countertop.

“I’m sorry,” he says without turning around. He hears a soft inhalation as Mycroft prepares to respond, but the words don’t come for a little while yet. He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t know what he would prefer.

What he gets is: “How long have you known?”

It’s maybe the only thing he hadn’t readied himself for.

He takes a rattling breath and tries to speak softly, though Sherlock probably isn’t even trying to listen in.

“I didn’t,” he admits. “I… Thinking back, there have been some—things, the last month or so. That might’ve been signs. But I— I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Mycroft chuckles quietly, and John hates him a little bit.

“I imagine I would have done the same,” he says.

Tried to deny it as long as possible. (Saying it out loud makes it real.) Ignored the signals that would have been obvious in a patient. (Surely it will never happen to me, to him, to us.) The corner of John’s mouth tugs up in a wry little smile, a reflex substituting for the words ( _thank you_ ); in an instant, all is forgiven.

Before Mycroft has a chance to offer his support, to offer his assistance, to offer the best hospitals, the best aides, the best treatments, John turns with his hands raised.

“Mycroft—I know you have every right to be a…a part of this, but you know, for now, just—right now, just for awhile, do you think you could let us handle it ourselves?”

It sounds awkward, childish and territorial and poorly thought out, but he isn’t sorry he asked. Mycroft doesn’t even look angry or offended, just quietly contemplative; John knows what he’s thinking, knows that he’s plotting out the course of the future and pinpointing the landmark events that he’ll refuse to ignore. It’s hard to begrudge him for it.

“I will afford you every modicum of privacy within my power,” Mycroft says, and John reads in his even tone and loquacious words how badly it hurts him to give them this.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft hums softly, and John turns the kettle back on to reheat the water.

“Greg was a good man,” he says as he puts tea leaves in the strainer.

Mycroft clicks his tongue in acknowledgement, acceptance, avoidance.

“Please take care,” he says instead of something appropriate.

Of him.

Of yourself.

Of everything.

John sighs.

“I’ll do my best.”

Today is a necessary day.

\---

The light of the morning is unusually crisp, and John takes it as a good omen even though he’s never believed in such things and now is a spectacularly bad time to start.

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table with a piece of toast on a plate at his elbow and a notebook open in front of him. Though he holds a pen tightly and stares at the page with his brow knitted thoughtfully, he’s yet to write more than a few words; best as John can tell, it’s about half a sentence. Maybe a third.

John stands across from Sherlock and clears his throat.

“How’s it going?” he asks, gesturing toward the mostly blank paper. Sherlock ruffles his free hand through his hair and raises his other to bite down on the pen.

“Look, Sherlock,” John says haltingly, “you’ve been acting…off, lately, and are you—well, are you feeling alright?”

Removing the pen from his mouth and folding his arms on the table, Sherlock meets John’s gaze.

“I feel fine,” he says. “The question you should be asking is, ‘Are you _thinking_ alright?’”

John smiles, tipping his head down to hide his affection (this isn’t the time to get emotional).

“Well?” he prompts. Sherlock licks his lips and looks away.

“You’re a doctor, John,” he says, cutting past the treacle. “How long have you been waiting to ask me about this?”

Ashamed to admit to his willful blindness, embarrassed by his foolhardiness in ignoring the increasingly obvious signs, John clears his throat again.

“Mycroft and I talked about it yesterday,” he dodges. Sherlock nods.

“I suppose we ought to go to the hospital,” he says. John nods.

(Thank you for saying it so I don’t have to.)

John rings the hospital for an appointment with a neurologist; there’s an opening on Monday at ten.

\---

“Mister Holmes, my name is Doctor Klim,” says a sturdy-looking man in a lab coat. “I’m a neurologist; do you know where you are?”

Sherlock leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “The Royal Hospital of Saint Bartholomew,” he says primly. Doctor Klim nods.

“Good,” he says. “Now, I’m going to ask you some questions about yourself and if you don’t know some of the answers, that’s perfectly fine, I’d prefer you tell me that than try to make something up.”

“John,” Sherlock snaps, “tell him not to treat me like an incompetent.”

John winces, but Doctor Klim doesn’t seem to take offence, or maybe even to notice; he’s heard it all before.

“My apologies, Mister Holmes,” he says in a sharper tone. “First we’ll discuss your medical history, and then we’ll move on to the physical exam. So I’ve got a few questions for you, and as I said, if you don’t know some of the answers, just say so.”

Sherlock unfolds his arms and leans forward slightly.

Things move at a brisk pace after that. The doctor asks so many questions that John stops trying to keep track, preferring to melt into the wall, or sink into his uncomfortable plastic chair with its spongy padding that’s ripped near the back corner. He pays attention when the questions stop and a nurse named Diana arrives with a sphygmomanometer and a single-use hypodermic needle, but he doesn’t learn much he didn’t already know.

After about an hour, Doctor Klim escorts Sherlock to an MRI scan room. John goes along with them; Sherlock assures him that the test will be boring, and Doctor Klim reminds them that it’ll take at least an hour on its own, but John has been a doctor for a long time and he knows what he’s doing, thanks very much, and Sherlock, if you think I’m leaving you alone in there, well, think again.

The test does take a long time, and Sherlock has a little trouble getting up off the table after it’s finished. Doctor Klim escorts him back to the examination room and doesn’t let John in while he’s administering the mental status exam.

“A complete analysis of all the test results will be included in my report, Doctor,” he says, standing in the doorway. “If you have any questions in the meantime, Diana will be able to speak with you while you’re waiting.”

Or something like that.

\---

Three days later, John receives a phone call from Doctor Klim’s office that ends with a suspicion that Mycroft has gone back on his word not to interfere just yet and a prescription for a generic once-a-day cholinesterase inhibitor called galantamine. John appreciates the specificity.

John fills the prescription immediately and hopes that Sherlock will fall into the ten percent of patients for whom medication demonstrates some improvement.

\---

Sherlock has headaches once or twice a day and sometimes feels dizzy or nauseated and needs to sit down for awhile.

He starts outlining his book again, and John thinks the pills are working. The benefits can last up to three years, by some estimates.

He hopes for a miracle.

He’s never believed in such things, but now is as good a time to start as any other.

They deserve a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles, Dr. Klim, and Diana are from _Zero Escape: Zero Time Dilemma_ (2016); story title is from "Visions of Heaven" by Bloc Party (2007).
> 
> Sphygmomanometer: blood pressure cuff


	2. audentem forsque venusque iuvat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both luck and love favor the bold

They walk in Regent’s Park almost every day now. Someone at the hospital mentioned that it would be a good idea, John thinks, or he read it somewhere. They go midmorning when the weather is cooler and the park is less crowded than the afternoon; Sherlock seems to enjoy himself.

“John,” he says one day, tilting his head up and looking at the big blue sky. “John. Tell me what will happen.”

This isn’t the first time Sherlock has asked such a question. To be fair, John has never answered it before, but he’s done his research and spoken to the doctors and the nurses, and the pills seem to be working, and the future will come as it will come regardless of whether he talks out loud about the maybes and the maybe-nots.

“You’ll feel like you’re having memory lapses; you might have trouble coming up with words you’re looking for,” he says as though it hasn’t been happening for weeks. “You might have trouble remembering people’s names, or things you’ve read. It might be harder for you to be sociable, or do any kind of work. You might have trouble finding things, and it might be hard for you to make plans.”

“Might?” Sherlock needles, and John smiles at him.

“Let’s hope for the best.”

He doesn’t ask for a miracle because Sherlock would laugh and call it stupid.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

“The medicine will help,” he says because it seems to be true. “There’s another medication, it’s called memantine, that you can add once the symptoms start getting worse.”

“Once the disease has progressed,” Sherlock corrects, sounding so rational, so clinical, so much like his old self that John could cry with relief (but he shouldn’t jump the gun).

“Yes,” he says instead.

“What will happen then?” Sherlock asks, clasping his hands behind his back and sounding so resigned that John could cry for all that is so unfair (but he shouldn’t dwell on inevitable things).

“You’ll forget more,” he says, because that part is obvious. “You might feel frustrated and angry, and you might be confused about more things. You might sleep during the day and be restless at night, and you might start to wander and get lost.”

John thinks about all the other things he knows, all the warnings he’s been given about the ways things will change, and doesn’t mention those. If Sherlock wants to know so badly, he can look them up himself.

Then again, maybe he can’t.

The next time they pass a bench, John sits, and then Sherlock sits beside him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says as though he’s accepted what he was told.

“I won’t leave,” John says as though that was something to be afraid of.

Sherlock takes his hand and fits their fingers together, and they wait for awhile.

“I love you,” John says as though it’s indisputable (it is, it always has been).

“I shall love you to my dying day,” Sherlock says, and for now the words are honest and true.

They walk together back to Baker Street, and John imagines a future far away where everything is as it used to be and no one is afraid.

(We were promised all that we deserved.)

Something seems to have gotten lost along the way.

\---

After breakfast one morning, Sherlock washes his hands three times in a row and dries them with kitchen paper that he tears to shreds before throwing the damp scraps into the bin, and then he picks up his violin from the corner by the window. John smiles; Sherlock doesn’t play his old favorites anymore, or any composed music, really, but his improvisation is as good as ever and it always tells John exactly how he’s feeling in a way that words never quite could.

The first notes are slightly out of tune; Sherlock puts his bow on the table and pinches one of the tuning pegs between his fingers.

It takes him a long time to tighten the string.

“John,” he says tersely.

“Yes?” John says at once, because all the books and the doctors and the nurses tell him to be agreeable.

“John, this violin is broken.”

John stammers sounds, parts of words he hasn’t thought through to the end, and walks over to take the instrument in his hands.

He settles on: “It’s fine if you don’t want to play.”

“The violin is broken,” Sherlock says again.

_Don’t be angry._

“I’ll talk to someone about getting it fixed,” John says as though the complaint was a logical one.

They deserve a miracle.

They aren’t going to get it.

\---

When they’ve nearly run out of bread and milk, John goes to the shops; he spends the entire trip worrying about leaving Sherlock alone and insisting to himself that things aren’t that bad just yet. When the cashier gives him change, he almost forgets to take it, and her smile is sweet and full of pity even though she badly misunderstands.

John finds Sherlock sitting at the table by the window with a pen clutched tight in his hand and two stacks of paper in front of him, one blank and the other covered in diagrams and scrawls.

“Working on the book again?” John asks as he goes to put the food away. Sherlock grunts.

“How’s it going?”

Dropping his head into his hands, Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair; it’s a familiar gesture from days long past, and John wants to take it as a good sign even though it feels like just the opposite.

Sherlock sniffs. “I’ve finished detailing the outlines for the first five chapters,” he says.

John steps up behind him and puts his arm over Sherlock’s shoulders. “But…?”

“This will never work.”

“Oh,” John leans over to read the words he’s written (there aren't any), “why would you say that.”

Sherlock slaps the back of his hand against the inked stack. “Look at this!”

Without expecting to understand whatever detailed facet of apiology Sherlock has set to describing, John presses his finger down under the top line.

He’s right in a slightly wrong way.

John clears his throat and draws back from the table.

“How long have you been…working like this?” he asks, trying to be delicate.

Sherlock doesn’t appreciate it.

“ _Weeks,_ John, it’s been _weeks._ And it’s only getting…” Waving his hands in the air, his lips pinch together as he struggles through the fog. “Getting, you know! It’s getting warmer!”

John bites the inside of his cheek and sighs through his nose.

“It’s getting worse?” he offers.

“Obviously!”

Standing slowly, more slowly than he used to, Sherlock smacks the pile again, knocking most of the pages over and a few to the floor. He puts his hand to his head and closes his eyes.

“I’m going to lie down,” he mutters, walking to the bedroom with his shoulders hunched over.

“Alright then,” John says, trying to sound calm. The door slams shut; he must have thrown it.

Lowering himself carefully to the floor, John collects the papers Sherlock discarded and sits with his back against the wall as he flips through them.

A word is recognizable here or there; “bees” seems to be the easiest, the most consistently legible. From a distance, the manuscript looks more like abstract art, like a Pollack and a Kline smashed together into one.

John tosses the pages up onto the table and sighs.

Today is not a good day.

\---

Recently, the side effects of the galantamine seem to have waned; Sherlock no longer complains of nausea or dizziness, and his headaches can all be traced to singular visual or noise cues. It’s taken awhile for John to get used to not watching television anymore, but to be fair, he’s probably better off.

Things aren’t getting better, exactly, but for the time being, they aren’t getting worse, and that’s almost as good.

Sherlock lies on his back on the sofa, dozing on and off and coughing every once in awhile. John sits by and engrosses himself in an old text he’s read so many times before that he can recite parts of it by rote.

“John,” Sherlock says abruptly with the slightest tremor in his voice. John goes to his side as quickly as he’s able, not as quickly as he’d like.

“Are you alright?” John asks, no longer sure what would qualify a “yes.”

Sherlock turns his head and looks him in the eye.

“I’m dying, John,” he says softly, a revelation of nothing new.

John takes his hand and thinks about lying.

“I know, love,” he says. “I’m here.”

Sherlock’s smile is watery and faint; it’s a difficult thing to do. His expression doesn’t change nearly as much as it used to.

“I don’t want to.”

John’s smile is ironic and brief. He presses their joined hands to his forehead and leans in.

“I know.”

Sometimes the good days are the worst ones.

\---

In the middle of August, Sherlock emerges from the bedroom for their midmorning constitutional in jeans and a heavy sweater with his old police tactical raincoat hung about his shoulders. John winces and asks if he’s sure about all that, and Sherlock looks down at himself curiously.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” John says, walking up to him and laying his hands on his shoulders. “Maybe leave this one back in the closet, though? Don’t want anyone mistaking you for an EMT.”

That’s a good point. Sherlock returns the plastic coat to his wardrobe and they walk about half the distance through the park that they usually do.

From then on, John makes a point of laying out his clothing for him at the start of each day. It doesn’t occur to Sherlock to question it.

\---

Near the end of October, they return from an unseasonably warm walk and John tries to strike up a conversation. They haven’t seen Mycroft in awhile, and as far as John knows, he and Sherlock haven’t spoken on the phone; maybe they ought to invite him over for tea, or at least offer that as an excuse.

If he’s going to keep talking, Sherlock tells him, he should go away.

John does.

He tries to be agreeable.

\---

One day, after he’s been meaning to get around to it for quite some time, John putters around the kitchen and packs all of Sherlock’s chemistry equipment into boxes. It hasn’t been used in months, and he doesn’t want Sherlock to get any ideas.

While he works, Sherlock sits on the sofa and dozes on and off, holding a large hardcover book in his lap and occasionally turning a page or two. He may or may not be reading it; it doesn’t much matter. He’s probably read it before, and it’s not as though it’ll stick.

John smooths packing tape over the lid of the last box and puts it in the closet; when he’s through, he goes to the bedroom, sits down at the foot of the bed, presses his hands to his eyes, and cries.

It helps a little.

Only a little.

\---

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” John says in the morning. Sherlock nods and opens the door to the closet.

No, the bathroom is the one on the left.

Oh, yes. It’s always been that way.

Probably.

\---

John checks the weather report in the paper; a dramatic cold front is due to roll in soon, putting an end to this disconcertingly drawn out autumn dampness. Today might be their last good opportunity all year to go for a walk in the park.

“Shall we go to Regent’s?” he proposes, already making his way toward the door. Sherlock doesn’t follow.

“Why?” he asks suspiciously. John takes his hand off the doorknob.

“The, er, the weather’s going to change soon, they say,” he reasons, “so I thought we ought to go for one last walk before it gets too…wintery.”

At Sherlock’s scandalized expression, John regrets using the inelegant adjective, but that doesn’t seem to be a sticking point.

“Do you intend to kill me there?” Sherlock snaps instead. “To throw my body in the boating lake? To finish the job, are you two _in on it_ together?”

“ _What?_ ” John blurts out. “I— No, Sherlock, of course I don’t want to kill you, I don’t, want to hurt you at all! And—me and who, who am I in on…nothing with?”

“ _Moriarty,_ ” Sherlock spits as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. John’s shoulders drop wearily, his arms suddenly much heavier.

“Sherlock…”

“What!”

John only shakes his head and looks at the floor, and Sherlock can’t find anything to throw at him (John has prepared, John has been _planning for this_ ) so he storms into the bedroom and locks the door behind himself.

Two hours later, maybe a few minutes more or less, he returns to the living room to find John’s chair positioned in front of the window; John sits, looking out at the pavement, the park, the clouds.

Sherlock places his hand on John’s shoulder and looks out with him.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he asks.

John’s breathing is unsteady.

\---

“We have an appointment with Doctor Klim this afternoon,” John says at breakfast. Sherlock puts a spoon in his oatmeal and taps it against the bottom of the bowl.

“Why?”

John swallows his toast and clears his throat. “Uh, check-up,” he says. “He wants to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine.”

John looks at Sherlock’s oatmeal and tries not to sigh too loudly.

“Are you eating enough?”

“Mrs. Hudson always forgets to add the strychnine.”

In his head, John substitutes “sugar”; slowly, he’s learning not to be frightened by these conversations.

“Would you drink some water?” he requests, pushing his own nearly-full glass across the table. Sherlock downs half of it without missing a beat.

“Thank you.” John takes a bite of scrambled egg and tries again. “Doctor Klim wants to see you this afternoon.”

Sherlock pushes the oatmeal bowl slightly to the side. “Does he?”

“He really does.” John spoons a little bit of sugar into the oatmeal and pushes it forward. “He’d like to talk to you, I’m sure.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“Well,” John takes a sip of water and passes the glass back, “he hasn’t seen you in quite awhile, he probably wants to talk to you about all sorts of things.”

Sherlock eats a spoonful of oatmeal and stares down at the bowl.

“Alright.”

John smiles.

He likes it when the conversation is easy.

\---

It’s been nine months.

Doctor Klim’s smile is sympathetic; John recognizes it. It’s part of every good medical professional’s toolkit.

He hates it.

He has always hated it.

“Three years,” he says thinly. “It was supposed to be three years.”

Doctor Klim purses his lips and folds his hands in front of him on the table.

“That estimate is very…generous,” he hedges, “and in my experience, Doctor Watson, when medication proves to be effective, it delays the onset of symptoms by a time frame of closer to six to twelve months at the most. So—”

“Please,” John interrupts, “please don’t tell me we were lucky.” He smiles and closes his eyes. “Just—don’t.”

Doctor Klim shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t.”

They sit in silence for maybe longer than is appropriate. John sighs and Doctor Klim clears his throat.

“As I was saying, I think we should consider switching the galantamine for donepezil and adding memantine to Sherlock’s regiment. I don’t know if you came across them in your research or someone might’ve mentioned them to you at some point?”

The words sound vaguely familiar, but John can’t be sure.

“Yes,” John says, “yes, I think I did.”

Doctor Klim smiles again. “We could also take him off the cholinesterase inhibitors entirely, if you’d prefer to try that instead; donepezil…as you may know, serves essentially the same function as galantamine but has a slightly lower efficacy rating, which is the only reason I didn’t want to prescribe it right away.”

John feels like he's being humored.

He finds it difficult to care overmuch.

“Memantine,” he mimics flatly. “Yes. Right. Best to prescribe fewer medications, don’t you think? Keep things simpler?”

He’s so tired.

Doctor Klim nods.

“Let’s do that, then,” he says. “The most common side effects are headaches and constipation, so keep an eye out, and we should have another appointment in about a month, to check for hypertension.”

A month.

John writes it down on a Post-It and puts it in his pocket. Doctor Klim stands and offers his hand to shake.

“I’ll email you a reminder.”

Oh, good.

“John,” Doctor Klim says hesitantly as they loosen their grips, “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but have you considered checking out a…support group for caregivers?” He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. “Some people find sharing their experiences with others in a similar situation to be very helpful.”

You’re being presumptuous, John thinks spitefully.

“I’ll look into it,” he says with a smile.

There’s a flyer for just such a group on a pin board in the lobby. John writes down the phone number as he and Sherlock walk past, promising himself to call.

No, he won’t.


	3. desine fata deum flecti sperare precando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cease to hope that the decrees of the gods can be changed by prayer

On this, their first walk of the season through Regent’s Park, Sherlock takes a long time getting down the stairs and stops outside the front door, leaning against it and breathing heavily. John is furious with himself; this was a stupid idea and he should have known better. A small voice tries to console him with stale reasoning: So few things these days give Sherlock any sort of pleasure, and if this will make him happy, it’ll be worth it. (Anyway, give it a moment and he won’t remember this part.)

John is furious with himself.

They walk slowly across the street; Sherlock keeps his arm around John’s shoulders, and John tells himself it’s a gesture of affection. There haven’t been many of those lately.

It isn’t, the small voice reminds him. It isn’t.

They walk slowly along the path; John keeps his arm around Sherlock’s waist and doesn’t speak, in case it would be distracting.

They haven’t gone very far when Sherlock takes great pains to make a face as though he’s just eaten something rotten.

“This is boring,” he says disdainfully. John’s heart aches.

“You don’t like being out here?” he asks. Sherlock shrugs; it looks uncomfortable.

“It’s not really…worth it, is it? Such a bother.” He looks around, not at anything in particular. “I’m very old, John. Walking is…difficult.”

John tries to be glad that the idea was expressed so clearly.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

It takes a long time to turn around; Sherlock gets dizzy these days.

On this, their last walk in Regent’s Park, John wishes he had known better and hopes Sherlock only remembers their times there in a nice way.

He hopes Sherlock remembers their times there at all.

He doesn’t know what he hopes.

\---

“Time for a bath, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns. He doesn’t remember this appointment.

“I’m fine,” he says flatly. John sighs.

“It’s been three days.”

“And I’m _fine._ ”

John has learned to prepare for this.

“Look, Sherlock.” He holds up a piece of paper; there are words written there, black ink words, a doctor’s messy scrawl, and Sherlock can’t tell the letters apart. That doesn’t matter, of course. John will read it to him.

“It’s from Doctor Klim,” John explains patiently. “A prescription, you see? He wrote you a note. It says to take a bath every Thursday.”

“Today is Wednesday.”

“Yes, and this is a prescription from Doctor Klim that says to take a bath every Wednesday.”

John has learned to navigate these conversations.

He guides Sherlock to the bathroom and lets him watch while the tub fills.

“Thank you,” he says when Sherlock takes off his shirt.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock says without quite knowing what for.

The water is shallow when Sherlock gets in.

John has learned to navigate these procedures.

\---

They don’t have many photo albums; Sherlock was never fond of having his picture taken, and John never seemed to find the time to put together anything elaborate. The two they do have are utterly lacking in theme and span many, many years.

“Hat-man and Robin,” John murmurs, “the web detectives. Remember that? What a time that was. What a case.”

Sherlock sits beside him on the sofa with his hands in his lap, his eyes on the newspaper clippings, the photograph of that hat posed on the mantle. It’s gone now, John doesn’t know where. Greg gave Sherlock another one, charcoal grey, for Christmas the year before…

Anyway.

He turns the page.

“Don’t know why I let you put that in there,” he says, tracing the edge of a photograph from his wedding to Mary. Tara. Sophie. Whoever. They never did find out her real name.

Sherlock puts his finger over her smiling face.

“Why?”

John shakes his head. “Oh, I don’t know,” he muses. “I guess it’s one of those things I’d rather—”

No.

John bites his lip a little too hard and tastes copper.

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock turns back a page to the newspaper clippings, sliding his fingernail under the glued-down edge where John’s face is partly out of frame.

“He looks like you.”

John has been waiting for this moment.

He isn’t sure why he thought he’d be prepared when it arrived.

Some time later, when he comes back to himself, Sherlock has torn the newspaper clipping out of the album; one especially well fastened corner remains on the page, the rest in shreds on Sherlock’s lap. John tells himself it doesn’t matter; they’re only things, and it was a silly article anyway. Mostly inaccurate, full of conjecture and fabrication.

John closes the album and puts it back on the shelf, and then his phone rings. He keeps it in his pocket nowadays because that makes everything easier, but he doesn’t receive calls from many people other than Doctor Klim.

“Hello,” he says in a hollow voice without checking the caller ID.

“John.” Anthea. John hasn’t heard from her in a long time. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he says. He doesn’t much care for the beginnings of phone calls.

“John…Mycroft would like to speak with his brother.”

John looks at Sherlock, sitting on the sofa with newspaper shreds in his lap and a fog in his eyes.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now,” he warns her.

“It’s important.”

This is going to end very badly. John takes a deep breath.

“How serious is it?”

Anthea doesn’t respond immediately, and John laughs despite himself.

“I see. Just a moment.”

He holds the phone out.

“Sherlock, Mycroft would like to talk to you.”

“No.”

John takes the phone back and offers it again.

“I think you should take it, Sherlock. It’s important.”

“ _No._ ”

John knows what’s going to happen, and he shouldn’t let it, but then again, he did warn her. Sitting back on the couch, he presses the phone into Sherlock’s hand.

“Please, talk to him.”

Sherlock puts the phone to his ear; John hears Anthea’s voice, a word or two. “Hello, Sherlock,” maybe, or “One moment.”

John tries to dodge when Sherlock throws the phone at him, but they’re sitting too close; it cuffs his cheekbone and he hears the screen crack when it hits the floor.

“Dammit, Sherlock!”

Sherlock glares at him.

John shakes his head and goes to the bedroom to be alone for a minute.

He’s so tired.

\---

John spends three more days waiting.

This time, he’s ready. No, really.

The phone rings in the morning because it was too late to call right when it happened, so Anthea waited for the sun to rise. It’s a nice gesture. He doesn’t know what he would have done if she’d called immediately; nothing different, probably.

“Sherlock,” he says tenderly, hanging up the phone and leaving it on the kitchen table. “Mycroft didn’t recover from his heart attack.”

Sherlock looks at him curiously from his leather armchair placed by the window.

“Was he a client?”

John hurts all over.

No, Sherlock, he wasn’t a client.

John takes too long deciding how to respond, and Sherlock turns back to the window.

\---

The funeral takes place in Sussex, surrounded by trees that are losing their leaves, and lasts approximately one billion days. Very few people are in attendance, all deeply saddened and deeply grateful.

It sounds lovely.

John is both sorry to be missing it and not sorry at all.

“Sherlock,” he says as he hangs up the phone. “That was Anthea.”

Sherlock nods.

“About my brother?” he asks blandly, but John is pleased that he made the connection. He nods, toying with the mobile still in his hands.

“The funeral went very well.”

It sound so tasteless.

Sherlock closes his eyes. “My brother is dead.”

John sits beside him and looks at the floor.

“Yes.”

“Did I know?”

These moments of clarity don’t come often; John is glad for that, because they make all the rest of the time so much worse. He puts his hand over Sherlock’s and hopes he finds it comforting.

“I told you,” he says. “When it happened. But no, I don’t think you did.”

Sherlock sighs. Sometimes, at this point, he says he’s sorry; John has stopped correcting him and sometimes Sherlock remembers that this isn’t his fault.

“I love you, John,” he says this time, because right now the words are honest and true. He doesn’t get to say them often.

John holds his hand tighter and pulls it a little closer and wishes this moment would go on forever.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

The mark on his face is still bruised.

\---

It’s been four days since Sherlock was last able to brush his teeth without instructions. Seven since he last bothered to brush his own hair, eight since he started arguing when John asked him to please change his clothes.

John remembers these things clearly.

It’s been two minutes since Sherlock coughed up blood and fell to his knees on the bathroom floor.

John doesn’t remember much after that.

\---

“Late-stage.”

The sentence is much longer than that, full of detail and adjectives and fluff. John hears the important things.

“He doesn’t require full-time care,” John implores. Doctor Klim raises his hand stiffly and averts his eyes.

“It’s not a clean transition,” he says, “from moderate to severe. Each stage has indicators, they come in pieces.”

As a doctor, you should know this.

John does.

“He still recognizes me, sometimes.”

Doctor Klim looks uncomfortable; this isn’t the part of the job he signed up for. (John understands; he hates it too.)

“There’s no rule that says a patient can’t get pneumonia until they’ve lost the ability to speak,” he reasons (and it is reasonable). “I— John, we’ll treat him as best we can.”

_But you have to be aware of the possibility that there will be no coming back from this._

John has had this conversation many times before.

“Thank you,” he says, because he knows they will. “Please just…tell me when I can see him.”

This conversation usually goes on much longer; it’s not that he’s feeling charitable, but he knows all the words and he knows the way they all end up meaning the same thing at some point.

“Of course,” says Doctor Klim, and John goes to the waiting area to sit in a plastic chair with spongy padding that’s ripped along the left seam.

\---

It’s been four days, John thinks; five at the most, the reality probably somewhere in between. John holds Sherlock’s hand and watches him while he sleeps. His skin is sallow, wrinkled, dirty. There are dark smudges under his eyes; his sleeping has been erratic for months and months, and his more recent refusal to drink water has left him dehydrated. The doctors hooked him to an IV drip; saline, probably. John didn’t want to ask. Doesn’t need to know.

There are certain things which are important.

Sherlock awoke two days ago, at 3:12; John checked the clock because it seemed vital. The doctors hadn’t cared, and he realized how stupid he was being, and now the clock is facing the wall. At the time, Sherlock had asked where he was, what time it was, who John was; John answered the first question and waited for Sherlock to drift off again.

Now it’s dusk, or thereabouts, and Sherlock is awake again.

“John,” he says, and his voice is feeble, but this is important.

“Sherlock,” John says, holding one of Sherlock’s hands between both of his. Sherlock smiles a little; it’s difficult.

“John,” he says again. He tries to move, tries to shift closer, but his body betrays him, his mind too detached. “I…I…I’m not coming back, so we…” His fingers twitch in John’s grip, the best he can do right now. “Like this.”

John takes a level breath and touches their hands to his lips.

“What are you saying?”

Sherlock smiles a little (it looks like it hurts). “I love you…to my dying day,” and it comes out in a bit of a slur but John hears, and John understands. John is brilliant that way.

He looks into Sherlock’s eyes and inclines his head just so. “I’ll talk to the doctor,” he says softly.

Slowly, painstakingly, Sherlock smiles again. John holds his hand until he falls asleep.

(But we deserved a miracle.)


	4. plaudite, acta est fabula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> applaud, the play is over

John has a long talk with an administrator named Alice, who seems satisfied with his answers and asks him to sign five different papers three times each. Liability forms, he thinks, though he can’t remember the surrounding conversation.

Doctor Klim asks him one more time if he’s absolutely sure before Diana replaces the saline bag attached to Sherlock’s IV drip with one full of morphine.

Yes. Yes, I’m sure.

“Should we wake him up first?” Diana asks nervously.

That’s a horrible idea, John thinks, and you’re a disgrace for suggesting it.

“No,” John says, “he’s said what he has to say.”

Diana switches the bags and leaves the room. Doctor Klim claps his hand down on John’s shoulder and follows her.

John sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair with spongy padding that isn’t ripping anywhere and holds Sherlock’s hand, listening to the heart monitor slow down, slow down, slow down.

“I don’t…”

John hums a quiet note.

“This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, is it.” He slouches over a few degrees, his shoulders hunched, definitely going to cramp soon. “Once you retired, once _we_ retired, it was all supposed to be… Well, we were immortal then, weren’t we? Once we threw away our guns, put all those rooftop chases to rest, stopped hunting down murderers, psychopaths. Serial killers. That was a tough one, I know those were always your favorites.”

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls; the room is warm, the blanket is thin.

John smiles.

“And I’m glad you weren’t shot on the job, I’m glad you weren’t stabbed by some mad drug addict, I’m glad you didn’t…” He takes a quick breath. “I’m glad you’re very good at magic tricks.”

These are the trials we have endured.

These are my fears laid to rest.

“That should’ve been the end of it, that was supposed to be the end of it. We were going to move to Sussex, whenever we got around to putting London behind us, to a little cottage near the shore. Remember that? You were going to raise bees, however you got that idea in your head. You’d write your book and bottle honey, and I would write up all our adventures, turn those old blog posts into proper stories, and give free medical advice to the neighbors. Do you remember that, Sherlock?”

What a terrible thing to ask.

John sighs.

“But these sorts of things can happen no matter what your plans are, can’t they. And I suppose death is never really fair. Oh… We could’ve had another twenty, thirty years together and I’d be saying the same things I’m saying now. ‘It’s not his time, yet.’ It’ll never be your time, Sherlock. Why? Because you’ve done so much, for so many, and asked so little for yourself in return? Because the world is an infinitely better place with you in it? Or just because I love you, just because I’m older and it should have been me?”

His voice has risen, the pitch grown more forceful, as though that will ensure that Sherlock hears him (wouldn’t that be nice). John holds his hand tighter, knits their fingers together.

“I wouldn’t wish that on you, Sherlock. I wouldn’t. But, god help me, I…I don’t know how I’m going to bear it myself.”

John raises his head and leans back, dropping his shoulders, waiting for the burn to fade. Sherlock’s chest rises and falls; the light is stark, the walls are white.

“I’ll try, Sherlock. You wouldn’t want me to be unhappy. But I want you to know, because it’s true, I want you to know that no matter what, in spite of and _because_ of everything that’s happened, you are, without a single doubt in my mind, the very best thing that has ever, could ever have happened to me. You are, you always have been and you always will be, the love of my life; you’re taking a piece of me with you, and I can’t be who I was without it, so just…just know that. And please don’t expect too much of me.”

John presses his lips to Sherlock’s palm.

“But I’ll try. I’ll tell your story to the world, and I’ll leave out all the really embarrassing parts, because I know you hated to let anyone know you were human and I want everyone who hears to remember you as you wanted them to. And they will, Sherlock, I’ll make sure of it. You’ll live forever.”

John shakes his head. It’s become somewhat difficult to breathe.

“I hope you can forgive me for that.”

He listens to the heart monitor slow down, slow down, slow down.

“And I will love you to my dying day.”

Stop.

\---

John makes the funeral arrangements from the flat, on the Internet and over the phone. Everything is easy; he regrets trying to shut Mycroft out of the proceedings while he was still alive, wishes he could thank him for his kind and wonderful foresight.

It doesn’t matter now.

He probably knew.

Everything is beautiful and clean. John didn’t invite anyone, doesn’t know all the mourners in attendance, but they all knew Sherlock and offer John their condolences with varying ratios of sincerity and obligation.

John thanks them for coming.

After awhile, it’s over, and John goes home to Baker Street.

Everything is quiet.

\---

John is vaguely familiar with the procedure of these sorts of things, but surprisingly, or not surprisingly at all, the solicitors for the estate come to _him_ rather than the other way round; much of the necessary paperwork has already been filed, the busywork immaculately complete, and a considerable amount of money and other net worth abruptly added to John’s portfolio. He knew it was coming, in an abstract sort of way; he doesn’t need it, as his expenses are quite small and he doesn’t need to worry about caring for anyone but himself, but he appreciates it all the same.

It isn’t too long before he starts keeping his promise to Sherlock and typing proper narrative versions of their old adventures; the first collection, unambitiously titled _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ , finds a publisher immediately and is a roaring success. John donates all the profits to various charities, depending on what seems particularly necessary at the time, and tends to Sherlock’s old homeless network more generously than he’s ever done in the past.

They take the money apologetically and share an understanding of things.

Some days, John sits in Sherlock’s leather armchair, no longer by the window, and looks at the two photo albums they accumulated, both lacking in theme and spanning many, many years. They’re good memories, most of them; some are painful reminders of necessary things, but they all remind him of the place they ended up and it isn’t so bad.

Some days he cries, and some days it helps.

Most nights, John dreams of Sherlock. Some are memories, found footage with the colors slightly skewed and the edges a little warped; others are visions of the future they had always planned for, lovely things to indulge in that leave a bittersweet aftertaste and oftentimes prevent him from getting much work done the next day. Once he dreams of the future which might have been but wasn’t, because Sherlock grasped a precious moment of coherence and dignity and insisted it be his last moment of all, and John has always wanted what was best for him and said yes, let me do this thing for you.

He tries to be grateful.

They had a good run, after all.


End file.
